


The Burning of the Library of Alexandria

by Taifics



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bittersweet, Friendship/Love, Historical References, M/M, Other, Vague Historical References Actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 04:06:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17615147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taifics/pseuds/Taifics
Summary: Crowley had ingenious plan that consisted of tiny pushes and pulls, performed every now and then, here and there... The only thing he did not predict was Aziraphale (The Angel who could not, under any circumstances, be described as 'something') being assigned to the very same city, at the very same time, right when he... For G-... H-... WHATEVER'S SAKE!A short story about friendship (perhaps?), its past (and present?), things you cannot forget and things you memorise, though you would never admit it.





	The Burning of the Library of Alexandria

The sun, huge, round and orange like a properly ripe peach, was going down slowly, drowning into swirls of red and purple clouds, floating over the distant line of horizon. Another steamy day in Alexandria was coming to an end, promising to turn into pleasantly cool night.

“Egyptian days are disgusting,” Random Demon Whose Name Was Forgotten decided. “I cannot endure the reek of camels anymore.”

“Stop whining, will you?” Crowley hissed obviously annoyed. Random Demon Whose Name Was Forgotten was whining endlessly, perpetually, constantly and once again. He was Outright Whiner of the Up and Down. Even Aziraphale could be called bright and bliss compared to him... Well, technically, Aziraphale was bright and bliss, but... That was not the point!

Random Demon Whose Name Was Forgotten ignored the comment entirely... as always.

“I hope we will be asigned somewhere else soon,” he continued. “I particularly love China! And you?”

“Anywhere,” Crowley said quietly. “Can be Hell or... Well, I've heard Ides of March in Rome can be fun of sorts.”

“Oh, is it so?” Random Demon Whose Name Was Forgotten sighed, but he had no intention of talking about it... as always. “Once the deed is done, I believe our superiors will be pleased enough to let us choose the place. In the end, the deed will be of great importance, great meaning to the Down.”

“Yeah,” Crowley muttered and walked away with no word of explanation. That was normal. Their mutual relation allowed such action. They actually were both genuinely happy to be left alone. Crowley did not like his workmate and his workmate did not like Crowley, thus recent months were real Hell. Metaphorically speaking. Hell was much hotter and there were no camels.

Demon let the wind ruffle his curly, neatly cut hair as he was strolling down the narrow street.

“There you are!” he heard right behind his back.

And there he was, that pesky pansy of an angel himself! God must have truly despised Crowley, otherwise why would the Up assign Aziraphale to the same city, right when he was there, right when he... For G-... H-... WHATEVER'S SAKE!

Crowley stopped at place.

“I've found most intriguing manuscript in the Library!” the angel exclaimed being so clearly obnoxiously cheerful about the discovery. “Oh, I know, I know, you prefer, so to speak, other sorts of entertainment, oh, I know it well, my old boy, but... The poem that is written in there is delicious! I don't quite comprehend how those primitive minds are able to produce such divine beauty, do you? You must... I've got an excellent wine spiced with cardamon! You could drop by and I could...”

Throughout the whole stammered speech, demon was gazing at the angel with his features expressing almost artistic level of indifference.

“No,” the reply was as blut as it could be.

“Oh,” Aziraphale gasped, poorly masking his disappointment.

“I've been assigned to Somewhere Else,” he lied smoothly. “The Down decided I'm of no use in here. There's rebellion to be raised, king to be sliced or something to be... miced.”

“Are you aware that there is no such word as ‘miced’, aren't you?” Aziraphale asked after painfully long moment of silence that was heavy like rainful clouds just a minute before the storm. He tried to sound nonchalantly, but effect was, in fact, quite miserable.

“There is,” Crowley insisted solemnly. “It is a verb which means ‘plagued by mice’.”

“That is not true,” the angel disagreed firmly.

“Do not expect truth of a demon,” Crowley said, shrugging. “In fact, expect nothing, but deception,” he added, but immediately felt it was unnecessary and foolish of him to say, so he said calmly, “That is, if you want to be considered wissse.”

“Clever remark,” Aziraphale stated, sporting one of his famous uneasy, yet far too pretentious smiles.

“Bye, angel,” Crowley said shortly.

“Goodbye, my dear,” Aziraphale said stiffly.

 

***

 

There was some idiotic human rebellion later on or war, maybe? The Great Roman Civil War? Peasants used to call it Ceasar's Civil War... Or was it something else? Crowley could not recall. He was far too tangled into the web of his very own tiny pushes and pulls, performed every now and then, here and there, to know anymore.

All he could perceive were those billows of oily smoke, soaring ever higher and higher like some pristine creature of Chaos from before the Creation. Like Tiamat just waiting for Marduk to rip her apart and create the universe with her flesh, those abhorrent shapes were dancing the dance of glory over burning buildings of the Library of Alexandria... Was he getting poetic? Was being poetic and all Fancy Pancy contagious? Could it be cured?

Screams and shouts of people running back and forth (a real bunch of hysterical ants!) were like an ode to wisdom forever gone, to over forty thousand scrolls burning alive, to manuscripts with delicious poems lost, never to be read again...

Crowley was gazing at something in the distance, standing side by side with Random Demon Whose Name Was Forgotten. Both of them invisible. Both impassive in the face of pandemonium happening everywhere around.

“Egyptian nights are disgusting,” Random Demon Whose Name Was Forgotten announced lazily and yawned to emphasise how disgusted he was... as always. And, to be honest, completely pointlessly.

Crowley nodded in response, but stood still.

Random Demon Whose Name Was Forgotten made an effort and turned his face to look down at Crowley. (That fellow was insultingly tall, by the way.)

“I shall congratulate you,” Random Demon Whose Name Was Forgotten said as lazily as it was possible. “Your plan was, indeed, ingenious. They'll be blaming Pagans, Christians, Muslims for ages. I cannot even estimate how many souls you got for the Down. I am sure you will be rewarded and so will be I for my humble assistance.”

There was no handshaking, no friendly back-patting, no byes and see-you-soons. Just quiet ‘poof’ and Random Demon Whose Name Was Forgotten was forgotten once and for all just like his name.

Once he was left alone, Crowley headed slowly towards the figure he was staring at all along. Of course, he was not just ‘gazing at something in the distance’! ‘Something’ could be referred to an object, and could not, under any circumstances, be used to describe an angel.

_The Angel._

Crowley was invisible, but could he be invisible for Aziraphale? He surely hoped so.

Angel was standing unmovingly, looking at roofs tumbling down, devoured by ever-hungry flames.

Demon approached him cautiously, keeping distance in case invisibility was not that invisible as he wished it to be...

Suddenly, Crowley stopped.

Aziraphale was just standing there with his eyes wide open... _crying_.

Demon froze, observing the angel with irresistable kind of fascination.

Tears were spilling down his chubby face, dropping further down, down to the dirty pavement. His shoulders were trembling slightly. No single sound. Shallow breaths – Crowley could only guess, for he could not hear.

Saying nothing, demon walked away.

He could do all, but forget.

 

***

 

Crowley had just a few items in his minimalist flat in Mayfair. Framed drawing of Mona Lisa (Leonardo da Vinci’s original sketch, of course!), some well-watered houseplants, some barely ever used technological devices popular in 20th century... and a very old, perfectly preserved manuscript hidden in the bottom drawer of his nightstand. Its edges were clearly burned, but the words of poem remained. Demon would never tell anyone how well he memorised every single one of them.

 

 


End file.
